Accusation
by Minxie Kitten
Summary: Originally posted on my RvB fanfic Tumblr minxiefaceplantsthekeyboard. in response to the 30-day-drabble-prompt which, incidentally, illness forced me to give up on after only 3 days. Boo. Someone has eaten Grif's Oreos, and he is less than impressed.


The packet was empty. He'd shaken it upside-down more times than he could count, and crushed it between his palms for good measure, but the answer was still the same.

_Who the hell ate my Oreos?!_

Private Dexter Grif, known (much to his annoyance) as either plain "Grif", or some variation on dirtbag/turdbelly, stormed through Red Base with a face like thunder. He supposed it would be more impressive if he wasn't still in armour; no-one could _see_ how thunderous his face was underneath the blocky orange Mjolnir.

"Whoa Grif, what the hell?!"

He stopped stomping, and levelled a glare at the newest member of their team, who had been re-kitted in pink (_Oh, sorry, 'lightish red'_) armour. Grif wished he wasn't wearing his armour; Donut didn't even look unnerved. Pouty, yes, unnerved, no.

_Why the hell is he wearing hotpants? No, wait, I don't want to know…_

"Have you been in my room?" He demanded. Donut cocked his head to one side.

"You mean, your and Simmons' room?" He asked, with far too much innocence. Grif swallowed the urge to smack him, but only barely; he hated that _he_ had to share a room. It wasn't as though he'd _asked_ to share with Simmons – Sarge had just decided one day that he needed a spare room for…whatever it is he was doing. Grif couldn't actually remember _what _Sarge had said he needed the room for, just that he had to pack up his stuff and move in with Simmons.

The other soldier hadn't been entirely pleased either, but Grif hadn't really cared at that point. Not that he cared _now, _or anything. Not at all.

"Whatever. Have you?" He demanded, shaking his head slightly to dispel any and all thoughts of his roommate.

"Why would I?" Donut shrugged. "Nothing in _there_ I'm interested in."

For a moment, Grif debated asking which room _did_ have something he was interested in, and then quickly decided against it.

_Hey, don't ask don't tell, right?_

"Why'd you ask?" The smaller soldier asked curiously.

"Someone's had my Oreos." Grif practically growled. Donut's eyes widened.

"Uh oh." He said simply. Grif glared again, and glared even more when he remembered it was completely pointless to do so. He just couldn't be bothered to go through the rigmarole of getting out of his armour, though, not since he was supposed to go on duty in another half hour.

"Yeah. Uh oh. You any idea who had them?"

"Well, it wasn't me, and it wasn't Sarge." Donut supplied helpfully. Grif's brain did some unpleasant arithmetic, and came up with the conclusion that he _really_ didn't want to know why Donut was so sure Sarge hadn't had the Oreos.

_Please God let him have been doing something to the Puma. Warthog. Whatever._

"Fine. Right. You seen Simmons?"

"Last I saw he was in the kitchen." Donut smiled, and pranced off before Grif could question him any further.

"Weirdo." Grif muttered, and headed towards the kitchen. Simmons was, indeed, in there, perched on one of the uncomfortable metal chairs, his helmet on the table, a mug of something steaming beside it.

"Hey Kissass." Grif greeted him, thudding himself down onto the chair across from his roommate. "Did you take my Oreos?"

"What?" Simmons glared over at him. "No." He added quickly. Grif frowned; the denial seemed _too_ quick.

"Really." He said, letting his voice go flat and disbelieving. "Sure sounds like you've got something to hide."

"What the hell, Grif, I haven't had your Oreos!" Simmons snapped, making Grif's eyebrows raise behind his visor.

_Dude, is he __**blushing**__?_

"You sure about that, Simmons?" He pressed. "You're sounding pretty defensive there."

"I haven't had your damn Oreos Grif! Why the hell would I have such a sugar-filled pointless snack? There's plenty of wholesome food in here!"

"Like the rations, and the ketchup?"

"Yes like the rations! They're perfectly adequate!"

"Wait, Simmons, are those cookie crumbs round your mouth?" Grif had only been saying it to wind the other soldier up, and hadn't expected Simmons to flush even more and scrub at his mouth with a still-gloved hand.

"No!" He squeaked, then coughed. "No." He repeated. "You're seeing things."

"Dude, you're acting awful jumpy…" Grif frowned. "You _sure_ you haven't had my—"

"Yes! I'm sure!" Simmons stood up quickly, grabbing his helmet. "I'm going on patrol now. You've got duties to do, don't just sit there and accuse me of something I haven't done, lazy ass!" He was practically babbling, shoving his helmet on haphazardly as he went.

"What the hell was all that?" Grif muttered as Simmons shot from the room as quickly as if he'd been summoned by Sarge. "Weirdo."


End file.
